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Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk real shit—findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: I’m strollin’ Rome, right, like in *The Great Beauty*, that flick I bloody love. “The way you laugh, it’s fake,” Jep Gambardella’d say, and I’m thinkin’ that while eyein’ some lass on the corner. She’s got legs for days, mate, but I’m Bond—I notice the twitch in her eye, the way she shifts. Tells me she’s new, probs scared shitless.

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I hit the streets of Archangelos, and wow, the vibe was electric. I mean, you got the sun shining down on the narrow streets like it’s trying to show off. I strolled down Agiou Nikolaou Street, and the smell of fresh baklava hit me like a freight train. I swear, I could’ve followed that scent to the ends of the earth. But I didn’t. I kept walking, ‘cause I had a mission.

Dennis D'Archangelo Obituary (1973 - 2020) - Beacon Falls, CT - Connecticut Post